Hole In The World
by Agent Otter
Summary: There are, believe it or not, consequences to disobeying that many orders. Syd and Vaughn are just going to have to live with them. UPDATED CH 3
1. Chapter 1

Title: **Hole In The World**  
Author: Agent Otter  
Rating: PG  
Summary: There are, believe it or not, consequences to disobeying that many orders. Syd and Vaughn are just going to have to live with them.  
Spoilers: Vague references to "Endgame", but I wouldn't say there's anything terribly spoilerish here.  
Disclaimer: Ah, if only any of it were mine. I'd do such wonderous things with the costumes and lack thereof.  
Author's note: I've been trying REALLY hard to write some fluff for all those at SD-1 who've been requesting it. This isn't really what I was going for, but I think it's about as fluffy as you're going to get from me. On the up side, I also think it's a series, so you can expect more. You know, if you want it. Or even if you don't. Also, it may eventually turn into pointless smut, so uh... hooray for that, right?

_"Where you used to be, there's a hole in the world, which I find myself constantly walking around in the daytime, and falling into at night. I miss you like hell." - Edna St. Vincent Millay_

The house smelled like fresh paint, disrupted dust and the sharp lemon of antisceptic cleaner. Vaughn sighed, and the odor of the place filled his nostrils and clung to his tongue. It tasted like starting over.

The place was furnished, and the movers had left his few boxes of personal effects in a neat pile in the living room. He already knew the layout of the house; it was easily three times as big as the little place he'd had in LA, and felt about ten times as empty. He felt no need to explore the space; no desire to know where the floor squeaked, or how to coax open the balcony doors when the humidity made the wood frame swell. Instead, he set his laptop case on the shining surface of the little dining room table, slung his suit jacket over the back of one of the chairs, and pulled his cellular phone from his pocket. He knew the number by heart, but it was already set to the first button on his speed-dial, and the sound of the ringing on the line trilled out steady counter-rhythm to the rain pelting the roof.

"Hello?" There was static in her voice, and over twenty-six hundred miles of distance.

"Hey."

"Hi." He could hear her smile, and he could picture her fingers reaching up to self-consciously tuck her hair behind her ear. "How's Virginia?"

He couldn't hold in the sigh that had been fighting to escape all day, so he let it puff out, running a hand through his hair, slick with moisture from the storm outside. He'd gotten wetter than he should have; it had taken him an extra moment to find the right key and fit it to an unfamiliar lock. "Rainy," he finally answered. "With a side order of sleet. How's LA?"

"At the moment? A little chilly. And windy. But the afternoon was a beautiful seventy-two degrees."

He smiled, too, and hoped she could hear it in his voice, even from twenty-six hundred miles and change. "Stop gloating."

"Gloat? Me? Never. So how's the new place?"

He glanced around -- drab furniture, bare walls, stack of boxes -- and slumped into one of the dining room chairs, one arm slung over the back as he stared, unseeing, out the balcony doors. "Empty," he finally breathed.

This time she was the one to sigh, and he could hear the soft clink of the spoon in her teacup. "I was sitting at my desk today," she said, "and I was feeling awful -- I didn't sleep well -- and I thought, 'It's okay, I can just look over there at Vaughn and everything will be okay,' and I looked over at your desk, and there was one of the new recruits from Langley sitting there. I decided that I hate him."

Vaughn smiled, but it faded quickly. "Hey, don't blame the guy. It's not his fault he isn't me. Not everybody possesses my rugged good looks, you know?"

Her snort was decidedly un-ladylike, but it was very much Sydney. "'Rugged'? Maybe I should send you a dictionary as a housewarming present."

"Not rugged, huh? What would you call me, then?" The rain intensified against the roof and he squeezed his eyes shut, picturing her curled up on her couch, phone wedged between her ear and shoulder and a steaming cup of tea in her hands.

"Beautiful," she said. "Handsome. Wonderful. There are other adjectives to describe you, but I'd need a thesaurus to really hit them all."

He laughed, and used his free hand to attempt to rub the tension from the back of his neck. "I love you," he muttered to the phone, letting his voice carry down the line.

"I know," was her answer. "Tell me about the new job."

He stood, pacing into the kitchen. The house had come fully equipped by the Agency, complete with furniture, flatware, and electronic counter-measures, but it didn't extend to food. His cupboards were empty. "It's counter-terrorism stuff," he said. He searched the drawers for a phone book and found it in the last drawer he checked. "They've got me tracking incredibly far-fetched leads on arms dealers and mercenaries in eastern Europe."

"Sounds interesting."

"It's not. I haven't pushed so much paperwork since my first week out of the Farm. Tell your father if he's trying to break me, it's working."

"Hey, you can't put it all on my dad," she replied, with mock indignation. "I believe it was Kendall who had you reassigned. Something about 'placing personal agendas ahead of the Agency's interests'? I'm surprised it took them this long to discipline us, honestly."

"Oh yeah," he scoffed. "So says the woman who wasn't disciplined at _all_ after our little trip to Russia. It sure pays to have parents in high places. You keep your assignment and I end up across the country. And I just _know_ that your father requested the most boring assignment possible for me. There's no way Kendall's that cruel. No, this was the act of a man who knows very well that I'm sleeping with his daughter."

"Don't think I'm not being punished," she countered. "I think my dad just knows how to hit me where it counts. But it'll be fine." The assurance sounded like a reflex, and he wasn't sure she entirely believed herself. "You'll be back in LA before you know it. When you get back, we'll both take the day off. We'll spend the morning in bed, and the afternoon at the beach, and I'll take you out to dinner at that little Italian place in Old Town Pasadena that you like so much."

He closed his eyes again, palm down on the kitchen counter and let his arm take his weight, head dipping toward the floor. "You're killing me."

"Sorry." Her sigh was frustrated. "This is going to be harder than I made it out to be, isn't it?"

He let his eyes open and half-heartedly resumed his search in the phone book for restaurants that delivered. "'It's only six months,' she said. 'You'll be back before you know it,' she said. 'I'll be here when you get back,' she said. I'm on to your game, Bristow. You've got another man there with you right now, don't you?"

"Don't be silly. I told him not to come by until after ten."

He laughed, abandoning the phone book on the kitchen counter and toeing off his shoes, kicking them carelessly into the dining room. When he padded through toward the bedroom, his feet sank pleasantly into the thick carpet. "I was seriously thinking today that I ought to just quit the CIA and move back to LA. My new supervising agent is even worse than Kendall."

"We talked about that already," she said, and this time he could hear the frown in her voice. "You love this stuff. You can't quit the Agency. Not for me."

"Who said anything about you? I think it's obvious that the Kings are dying to get me on their ice."

She laughed, and he soaked up the sound as he loosened his tie. "So what are you doing right now?" she asked.

"Taking off my tie."

If the raising of an eyebrow could make a sound, he was fairly certain he could hear it across the phone line.

"Oh, really?"

"Mmm-hmm. What're you doing?" He inspected the closet and found a tie rack waiting for him. He resolved to find out who was responsible for stocking his new home and send them a thank-you note. Maybe a fruit basket.

"Thinking about you taking off your tie. What are you doing now?" Her voice was a little deeper than it had been. He was suddenly finding it a little more difficult to breathe.

"Unbuttoning my shirt. Feels like it's getting a little warmer in here."

"I was just thinking the same thing. Are you wearing the shoulder holster today?"

He clucked his tongue a little as he untucked his wrinkled dress shirt, and said, "Agent Bristow, I think you've done enough negotiation to know that you can't have everything without giving a little. What're you wearing?"

His line was, admittedly, a little more corny. She actually laughed at him, but she admitted, "My gray pajama bottoms, and that black tanktop I wear to bed."

"The really snug one?"

"Yeah. Holster?"

"No, sorry. Just the belt clip today. But I'll wear it tomorrow and think of you, if you'll wear the black underwear for me."

She laughed, and he bit his lip, trying to ride out the wave of wanting that was cutting off his oxygen supply. "Deal," she answered. "But for the moment, I'd rather you just continue what you were doing."

"What's that?"

"It sounded a lot like you were getting naked."

He smiled and shrugged his shirt off one shoulder, then switched the phone to his other hand so he could do the same on the other side. "Caught me," he said. "I wish you were here. I wish I was there. Whichever."

"I wish I was there, too. It seems like a real waste to have you stripping down and me not there to watch it."

His shirt hit the floor with a quiet rustle. "If you were here, I wouldn't be the only one losing clothing right now."

"That sounded a lot like a threat, Agent Vaughn."

"A promise," he assured her. "Hold on, you might appreciate this part." He moved the phone down to his waist, holding it close to his belt as he unbuckled it as noisily as possible with the other hand. When he brought the phone back to his ear, he could hear her breathing. "Liked that, huh?"

"You're a cruel man, Vaughn." There was a breathy quality to her voice that made him smile with satisfaction.

"But you love me anyway."

"Yeah. I do."

"Hold on a second," he told her, and he tossed the phone onto the bed just long enough to strip off his t-shirt. "Okay, I'm back."

"You were just taking off your undershirt, weren't you?"

"Yeah. We're going to be taking a lot of cold showers in the next six months, aren't we?"

"Yeah. I wonder if I can convince my dad to pull some strings to have them bring you back here."

"At this point, I wouldn't say no. This house is cold, and I'm talking about more than the temperature." He let out a grunt of frustration as he shucked off his pants and lay back on the bed. "God, I miss you. And I just saw you yesterday. How am I going to survive six months?"

"You're stronger than you let on," she said. "We'll make it. But you've had a long day... get some sleep, okay? I'll call you tomorrow. I love you."

He nodded wearily, as if she could see him, and answered, "Okay. I love you, too. More than I can possibly tell you." He hung up with a heavy sigh, got up only long enough to flick off all the lights in the house, and then shuffled his way back to bed and under the covers.

The next day, he returned home from work to find a FedEx box on his doorstep; it was heavy, and when he opened the box, a dictionary slid out. He smiled and flipped the book open to the R's, where he found a sticky note next to 'rugged' that said, 'See also: beautiful, handsome, wonderful.' The definitions for those words were marked with cryptic marks in pen, precise little dots. It took him a minute and a half to decode the message, which read, 'I miss waking up with you in the morning. I adore you. S.'

The phone was already in his hand when it rang, and he was still smiling when he answered.

the end... for now

So uh... feedback me. Dammit. I have several ideas for future installments, and basically all of them smuttier than this one. I'll probably have a new part ready before you know what hit ya. :)


	2. Chapter 2

Title: **Hole In The World** (Chapter 2)  
Author: Agent Otter  
Rating: R  
Summary: There are, believe it or not, consequences to disobeying that many orders. Syd and Vaughn are just going to have to live with them.  
Spoilers: Vague references to "Endgame", but I wouldn't say there's anything terribly spoilerish here.  
Disclaimer: Ah, if only any of it were mine. I'd do such wonderous things with the costumes and lack thereof.  
Author's note: Well, you asked for it, suckers. Hope it's alright. Shout-out (I can't believe I just said that) to my man Kyle for steering me from the path more pussified. Thanks, dude.

It took him nearly a week to finish unpacking, just because it felt like admitting defeat, so it was six long days before he even found the extra box.

It was plain brown cardboard, like the other containers it had taken cover among, but it was much smaller than any of the others. On the top was written "BDRM", in handwriting that approximated his, but it wasn't his, exactly, and he didn't remember packing that box. Closer inspection revealed it to be incredibly light, and when he gently shook it, the muted sounds of shifting objects gave away nothing.

He scowled at himself for rattling the box like an over-eager child on Christmas Eve. Despairingly certain that the container would ultimately hold nothing but spare computer cables or paperwork, he reached for the scissors and carefully, slowly, cut the packing tape that held the box shut.

When he pulled back the heavy cardboard flaps, the air that rushed out smelled of wood and paper. He reached inside, digging through an overabundance of tissue packing paper, before his hands closed on a smooth, polished wooden box. It was small, maybe four inches across, slim, and octagonal; crafted in deep, subtle woods, with an intricate pattern that was carefully cut, fitted, and pressed like a delicate jigsaw puzzle. He held it in his hands, enjoying the weight of it and the deep shining finish of the wood, but when he tried to open it, he couldn't even figure out where the lid was, much less how to unlock the box.

He took it with him into the bedroom, turning the little box over in one palm while his other hand snatched up the telephone from the bedside table.

"Hello?" She sounded weary and annoyed, but he didn't think he'd actually woken her up.

"Hey, beautiful. Long day?"

"It's looking up." The timbre of her voice changed, and he could hear the warm smile that she offered up.

"I found something while I was unpacking today," he said. "A box. What is it?"

"I can't believe it took you this long to unpack. I've been dying from the tension."

"Come on, Bristow. How does it open?" He was trying very hard not to sound petulant, but it was a losing battle.

"It's called a Himitsu-Bako," she explained. "A personal secret box. It's built with a series of sliding panels and pressure points, and you have to know the key steps to open it. It's a puzzle. I saw it in an antique store in Japan awhile back and I thought of you."

He held the phone between his ear and shoulder so he could hold the box in both hands, then probed gently at the sides until one of the tiny panels slid out to the side with a soft click. He made a little thoughtful "hmmm" noise, and then said, "Thought of tormenting me, maybe. How many steps does it take to open this thing?"

"Only twenty-seven, executed in the proper order."

He scoffed, sliding a second panel out with one thumb. "So it should only take me... what? Two, three years to figure this out?"

She agreed with a little hum, and said, "Yeah, I like to tell people that my boyfriend puts the 'Central' in Central Intelligence Agency. But I promise the secret inside is worth the hassle. You just seemed so frustrated with your assignment, I thought I'd send you something to take your mind off of it every once in awhile."

He smiled, carefully sliding all of the panels back into place so they wouldn't accidentally snap off the solid little box. "It's beautiful. Thank you."

"You're welcome. So, how was your day?"

"Same old, same old," he answered, with a heavy sigh. "You sounded pretty pissed when you answered the phone earlier; what's going on?"

"They're sending me to Morocco tomorrow. I was going to call and let you know... I won't be able to contact you while I'm gone."

He wanted to control the immediate physical responses of frustration, but they presented themselves anyway. His jaw clenched, wrinkles appeared in his forehead as he frowned, and he had to sit the puzzle box down very carefully on the bedside table to avoid crushing it in the pressure of his grip. "Weiss will be with you?"

"Yeah. Don't worry; he'll watch my back. My father's coming too."

"How long are you gone for?" His head felt too heavy to hold up, so he let it droop, chin falling to his chest.

"A week, at least. They're not really sure yet."

He was still thinking about what to say to that -- what _could_ he say to a week without hearing her voice? -- when his body interrupted. His stomach rumbled, reminding him that he hadn't eaten since early in the morning when he'd gotten up to run. "Well," he finally said, "since it's our last night for awhile... have dinner with me."

He didn't take it personally when she laughed at him, mostly because she said yes.

She rummaged through her kitchen and found pita bread and hummus, and fixed it up with a salad; he threw together a burrito with brown rice and black beans. They both sat on their bedroom floors, on opposite ends of the country, juggling food and phones so they could talk to each other over their meals.

They didn't talk about Morocco, or how long six months was, or even how long a week would be. He prodded her about the box, instead.

"Come on, Syd. Tell me what's in it."

"Not a chance. But how about you guess, instead?"

"If it's bondage gear, I'm leaving you."

"That's a miss, but I'd encourage you to experiment, Agent Vaughn. Add a little excitement to your life."

"You'll have to suggest that again sometime. In person. But the whole spy thing makes my life exciting enough; thanks anyway. Is it a mini-CD with naked pictures of you?"

"No," she answered, laughing. "But I almost wish I'd thought of that."

"I wish you had, too. But now that I've given you the idea, feel free to use it at some point in the future." He polished off his burrito and took the plate back into the kitchen, rinsing it under the faucet. "I don't know, Syd. I mean, I can't think of much you'd want to give me that would fit in that box. On the other hand, you have friends like Marshall who could probably build a satellite array that fits in the teacup. Give me some kind of clue."

She chuckled, and he could hear water running on her end, too; she'd finished her supper. "You'll just have to figure out how to open the box," she said. "I'm trained to withstand an incredibly vast array of torture techniques. There's no way you're getting that information out of me."

Vaughn walked back through the living room -- he never seemed to spend any time there -- and into the bedroom, and sprawled himself gracelessly on the bed. "Oh, I think there's a few things I could do to get you talking, Agent Bristow."

She started to reply, and then there was a pause, as if she were debating whether she should say what she'd started to say. When she finally forged on, her voice was a little deeper, breathier than it had been before. "Oh yeah? And what exactly would you do to make me talk?"

Vaughn paused too, unsure exactly what line she was leading him across. "Are we--"

"About to have phone sex? Yes."

"Okay. I just thought I should clear that up." His mouth was suddenly dry.

"Uh huh. So what exactly would you do to make me talk, Agent Vaughn?" she prompted again.

He let out a tense puff of breath and tilted his head back against the pillows, shut his eyes and tried to picture her. "Well," he finally said, interrupting himself to nervously clear his throat. "I'd want to find a suitable location for the interrogation. Someplace private, with a locking door, so we wouldn't be interrupted. Your bedroom, for instance."

She didn't reply, but he could hear through the phone the far-away sound of her footfalls on the hardwood floor, the click of her bedroom door -- one of his favorite sounds -- and the second click as she engaged the lock.

"Then," he continued, "I'd give you one last chance to tell me what I want to know."

"Keep dreaming, desk jockey," she scoffed.

"And then I'd invade your space. You'd be surprised, because you're not used to seeing me make an aggressive move like that, but I'd keep moving closer, and you'd back away, but you'd hit the wall. I'd get close, so close you'd be able to feel the heat coming off my body, but I wouldn't actually touch you."

"Why not?"

"I'm trying to build the tension here, Sydney. Do you mind?"

"Sorry. Go ahead."

He ran a hand through his hair and tried not to let her hear how nervous this whole thing made him. He forced himself to relax, sinking into the bed, keeping his eyes squeezed shut to help him picture her there, pinned against the wall, looking at him with wide eyes. "I'd lean even closer, with my mouth by your ear, so you could feel my breath on your neck. And then I'd tell you, very quietly, that I understand your loyalty, but that I'd still need to torture you unless you tell me what's in the box."

She didn't respond, but the breathy little "mmmm" sound down the phone line urged him to continue.

"But I wouldn't really give you time to answer. I'd wrap my fingers around your wrists and pin your arms back to the wall, pin the rest of you with my body, and kiss you so long and hard you wouldn't remember that you need to breathe."

"But I'd push back," she argued. "Because I'd be a pretty pitiful spy if I'd just give in without a fight. I'd catch you off your guard, because that kiss would make you forget what you were doing. But I wouldn't be thinking of escape."

He smiled, finding the game a little easier now that she was playing, too. "No, of course you wouldn't. And I wouldn't fight you, because it's not about secrets anyway, it's about the process of trying to drag them out, and I wouldn't care so much about the box as I would about trying to make you say my name when you come. But you were busy turning the tables on me."

The sound of her voice told him she was smiling as she replied, "Yeah, I was. I'd retaliate by pulling your shirt off."

He took the cue, setting the phone down long enough to pull his t-shirt over his head and toss it away. "It looks better on the floor anyway."

She chuckled in a low, throaty tone straight out of his favorite daydreams and continued, "I'd want to explore every inch of that skin with my fingertips, like the blind reading Braille, discovering every texture, soaking in that heat, but that wouldn't be all. My mouth would be mapping your shoulders, your neck, your jaw... that spot at the corner of your jaw, just under your ear? I'd let my tongue flick out there to taste the salt of your skin."

"I'd have a pretty hard time being still for that," he countered. "I'd be busy, too... I'd wrap my arms around your back and let my hands wander up under your shirt. I'd pull you closer, so I could touch more of you, and then my fingers would circle around to the front, slide over your abs. I'd unbutton your pants, push down the zipper -- slowly -- and I'd slip my hands inside the waistband so I could run my palms down your hips and thighs as I push your pants to the floor."

Through the earpiece of the telephone, he could distinguish a faint rustle of cloth. It was possibly the most erotic sound he'd ever heard, especially since it was accompanied by a soft sigh.

"I'd probably be losing patience by this point with your interrogation technique," she said. "I wouldn't be able to wait for you. I'd pull off your pants while shoving you toward the bed, and you'd be lucky enough not to trip over yourself. But I wouldn't give you time to regain your equilibrium... I'd be on top of you, kissing and licking and sucking..."

The phone pressed almost painfully against his ear as he used his other hand to shove off his pants and boxers. There was quite a bit of awkward squirming involved as he twisted around on the bed, trying to remove the clothing, and for a moment he was almost glad she wasn't actually there. She would've laughed at him. But then, of course, she would've made it up to him...

"I'd take you in," Sydney continued. Her words spilled out rapid-fire now, gasped out between breaths. "I'd trap your hips between my legs, hold down your wrists, explore your mouth with mine. I'd dig deep, so deep down into you that I'd find all the places in you that no one has ever seen before, much less touched, and I'd make love to those places, write my name there so you'd never forget. And I'd write my name on your skin, too, trace it out with my fingertips and my lips so there wouldn't be an inch of you that didn't belong to me. And just when you'd think that there'd be too much sensation, that you couldn't feel anything else, then I'd take you just a _little bit deeper_, and maybe you'd find some parts of me that the world hasn't seen before, but you wouldn't have time to explore because of the pressure and heat and skin and you wouldn't be able to think anymore and I wouldn't either and the edges of your vision would start to go black and we'd crash into each other like the ocean..."

Her voice faded away to her luxurious moans and ragged breaths. The pounding of his own blood in his ears sounded a lot like waves, and all he could think of was that almost-peaceful, terrifying feeling of inevitable drowning, like the time he'd been caught in a riptide as a boy.

"Okay," he finally gasped out. "You win. There's no way I'd ever get any information from you that you don't want to give. But if there's any State secrets _you'd_ like to know, now would be a terrific time to ask."

She laughed breathlessly, and he could almost feel her hand slapping at his arm as if she were there in bed next to him. "Sorry, I kind of got carried away. I didn't mean to hijack your interrogation."

"Oh no, please," he laughed. "Feel free. Any time. And I mean that in the most sincere and literal way possible. I've never been more happy to have a girlfriend who studied literature."

"Mmm hmmm. I didn't learn that from Hemingway, you know."

"I hope not," he replied, chuckling and feeling pleasantly sated. "I'd have to beat him up and tell him to keep his hands off my girlfriend." There was a moment of pleased, comfortable silence, and he rolled over onto one side, staring at the patterns of frost on the bedroom window. "Syd?"

"Yeah?"

"Be careful in Morocco, okay?"

"I will. I'll call you as soon as I get back."

"Okay." He waited just long enough that he could practically hear her drifting off, and then muttered, "Syd?"

"Yeah?" She sounded tired, and he could picture her on the bed, disheveled and nodding off against the rumpled comforter.

"Are you sure you won't tell me what's in the box?"

"I'm sure."

"Good. You're weakening. I'd like to interrogate you again when you get back. I think maybe I can wear you down over time."

She laughed, but her answer was slurred with sleep. "You'll never take me alive. Goodnight, Michael."

"Goodnight, Syd," he murmured back. "I love you."

"Same here."

He listened to the dialtone for awhile after she hung up, picturing her fumbling under the covers, still only half-naked. In this fantasy, she wore nothing but one of his dress shirts, and her fingers were still wet. He wanted desperately to be there, pressed against her, warm with sleep, held in the cradle of her pelvis and thighs. When he woke in the morning he was almost as tired as he'd been before he slept, but he knew it was the most rest he'd be seeing until she returned from Morocco.

to be continued...


	3. Chapter 3

Title: Hole In The World (Chapter 3)  
  
Author: Agent Otter  
  
Rating: R  
  
Summary: There are, believe it or not, consequences to disobeying that many orders. Syd and Vaughn are just going to have to live with them.  
  
Spoilers: Vague references to "Endgame", but I wouldn't say there's anything terribly spoilerish here.  
  
Disclaimer: If Eric Weiss were mine, I'd be takin' him home every night for a good snuggle.  
  
Author's note: I tried. I really did. But I'm just not very good at smut. Maybe I'll give it another go later, but for now you'll just have to live with this. Hope it's okay, but it is completely unbeta'ed and not guaranteed coherent.  
  
"Where you used to be, there's a hole in the world, which I find myself constantly walking around in the daytime, and falling into at night. I miss you like hell." - Edna St. Vincent Millay  
  
One week turned into two, and then two into three, and all Vaughn had to tide him over was a rushed phone call from God knows where, which had gone something like, "Hi! I really, really love you, and I'm really sorry but I have no idea when I'll be able to call again. Did I mention I love you? Got to go!" He hadn't gotten a word in edgewise, but he'd been very certain that the grumbling voice in the background had been Jack Bristow. Vaughn had resisted the urge to pitch his phone against the wall, but only just.  
  
In the fourth week, he received the postcard in his mail at home. The picture on the front was all puffy white clouds and sparkling blue water, and looked suspiciously like Chesapeake Bay. The flowing script letters laid over the picture said "Virginia" He flipped the card over and let his eyes drift over the familiar handwriting on the back. It said only, "Wish I was here." It wasn't signed, but Vaughn knew who had sent it. The postmark was from Montana. Vaughn wished like hell that he knew what was going on.  
  
He taped the postcard up on the refrigerator door, and he liked to stand and stare at it every morning as he nursed his pre-work cup of coffee. Occasionally he'd be caught unawares in the kitchen, wandering in to ponder that perpetual question of what to eat for dinner, and finding himself looking at the postcard instead. That was when he was doing in the fifth week when the doorbell rang. He blinked, looked up, frowned, and finally shook off his daze long enough to propel himself toward the front door. His forearm brushed against the pistol clipped at his hip, and the little jostle felt reassuring. It was dark outside, and he was not expecting company. A peek through the peephole revealed a red baseball cap and a box of pizza. He eased open the door.  
  
"Pizza?" the delivery driver said.  
  
Vaughn frowned. "I didn't order a pizza. Sorry, you must be at the wrong address."  
  
The driver frowned, too, though Vaughn could barely make out the motion in the shadows under the hat. "Sure you did," the kid said. "Large pepperoni supreme, breadsticks, and a side-order of Sydney."  
  
He blinked, not sure he'd heard right. "I beg your pardon?"  
  
The kid tipped his hat up a fraction, enough for Vaughn to see the wide I-know-something-you-don't-know smile, and shoved the boxes into his hands. "Large pepperoni supreme, breadsticks, and a side-order of salad," he said, but Vaughn was quite sure now that he had indeed heard something different the first time. "Compliments of Gino's," the kid continued, "and Gino says sorry about the mix-up with your last order. This one's on the house. Have a good night, sir, and hey… you ought to open those balcony doors. It's a beautiful night out here." He turned and swaggered away without another word, toward the idling car at the curb with the "Gino's Pizza" sign on top.  
  
Vaughn found himself smiling - the kind of wide, delighted smile that's impossible to erase - as he carried the pizza into the dining room and sat it down on the table. He paused to unlock and sweep open the balcony doors, admitting night air that was almost painfully warm and humid, then turned and beat a hasty retreat into the bedroom. He swept the few dirty clothes strewn on the floor into the hamper, and set new speed records in stripping off his suit and easing into a worn pair of jeans and an old t-shirt.  
  
By the time he dashed back to the dining room, the balcony doors were closed to the heat outside, and Sydney was sitting at the table, her bare feet up on another chair, and a half-eaten slice of pizza in her hands. She glanced up at him as though it was not at all unusual for her to be there, and gave him a very self-satisfied grin.  
  
"It's about time," she drawled. "Pizza's getting cold."  
  
She looked healthy and fit, with her long hair drawn up in a ponytail and her own long-limbed body clad in jeans and a tank top. He stood still and silent long enough to take her in, sitting there at his table as if she hadn't a care in the world. Then he crossed the distance between them, plucked the pizza from her hands and tossed it back into the open box, leaned in with one hand braced on the table and the other curled around the back of her neck. He pressed a kiss to her lips, hard and ferocious, demanding an answer. Her mouth opened under his, her tongue skimmed across his teeth, and her fingers clutched his t-shirt, keeping him there. She tasted like tomato and pepperoni.  
  
When they finally broke apart, he managed to draw back with a nonchalance he definitely wasn't feeling; he picked up her feet and slid under them to sit on the chair she'd been using as a footrest, then put her feet in his lap so she could use him, instead. He leaned over and tugged his own slice of pizza from the box.  
  
"What's up with the delivery kid?" he asked, as if he cared about anything other than getting her completely naked as quickly as possible.  
  
"I didn't want to come in through the front door," she answered, with a shrug, reclaiming her own rudely discarded food. "Difficult as it is to believe, I've been strictly forbidden from leaving my hotel room tonight."  
  
Vaughn frowned, thinking all sorts of not-helpful thoughts of what he could do with Sydney and a hotel room. "Forbidden? By who?"  
  
"Dad," she replied, with the kind of put-upon sigh produced only by over-protected daughters. "Supposedly it's a security thing, you know? Can't be seen here. But it's stupid, right? I mean… we're in Virginia. Flight layover. He can't possibly think I'd be this geographically close to you and not come over here."  
  
"I wouldn't call him a stupid man, no," Vaughn replied. "Not to his face, anyway." His smirk was one hundred percent self-satisfaction. Of course Sydney would come to see him. Wild horses couldn't drag them away from such an opportunity. "Which means he knows very well that you're here."  
  
She nodded, and mumbled around a mouthful of pizza. "Which means we're okay as long as we don't rub his nose in it; if he was going to haul me back there'd be a task force breaking down your door by now. So. I'm thinking we probably shouldn't waste any more time."  
  
He raised an eyebrow and polished off his crust. "Hot wild sex?" he inquired, politely.  
  
"Yes, please," was her reply, and then she was diving practically across the table, hauling him to his feet, and manhandling him all the way to the bedroom.  
  
***  
  
He wasn't quite certain how they'd ended up in the bathtub. Their course through the apartment had been anything but linear; they'd broken in the bedroom first, then stepped into the kitchen for a drink and ended up making out against the counter. The living room couch offered up a softer venue, but the dining room table had been messier than he'd imagined it would be. He supposed it was after they'd rolled themselves off of the forgotten pizza box - now soaked through with grease and juices where it had been crushed by her back - that they'd opted to clean themselves up. The warm water was soothing against his newly-strained muscles, and Sydney's weight draped over him, her breath flowing over his shoulder, would've sent him to a satisfied sleep, if only the tub hadn't been way too small.  
  
"Your bathtub sucks," Sydney murmured sleepily against his skin, echoing his own thoughts on the subject.  
  
He ran a hand down her back; it was cold and a little clammy, her wet skin exposed to the air by a tub that was at least a foot too short for real comfort and not nearly deep enough to submerge them both. "I know," he murmured back, into damp strings of her hair. "But I have to say, I've got a whole new appreciation for my apartment now. I'm thinking you were just what I needed to really Feng Shui the place."  
  
He felt her smile against his shoulder, and then she was pushing herself up, one hand braced on the edge of the tub, the other exerting a fierce pressure against his chest, making him grunt as air whooshed from his lungs. She stood over him for a moment, ankles caging his hips, then she stepped delicately out of the tub, snagging his towel from the rack on the opposite wall. "It's nice," she decided, as she rooted through his medicine cabinet, emerging somewhat deflated with a comb in hand. "Quiet. Though it is the kind of house where I'd expect kids and a dog and cookies baking in the oven."  
  
Vaughn grunted again, this time a slight noise of agreement, and painfully levered himself out of the tub, pulling the plug to let the water drain away. He snared the towel that she'd wrapped around her body, whipping it out of her grasp and using it to ruffle his hair dry, soak up the water streaking down his chest. "I'll take care of the dog part," he offered. "We'll do the kid thing together and you can handle the cookies."  
  
She glared at his image in the mirror over the sink, completely unconcerned with her nudity. "That sounded suspiciously like an offer to get the little woman barefoot, pregnant and playing house."  
  
He sidled up behind her, tossed the towel away, and wrapped his arms around her waist. "It was more a play for free cookies," he disagreed. "But you know my feelings on the barefoot issue. And pregnant might be… nice. Don't you think?"  
  
She couldn't hold back the flutter of a smile, and turned her face toward his, pressing her lips against the damp, cool flesh of his cheek. "Maybe when we've given up the whole 'life of danger' thing," she agreed. "Besides, all that would signal moving into the 'boring committed relationship' phase. I'm really happy with where we're at right now."  
  
He nuzzled at her jaw and nipped her earlobe, feeling wonderfully fuzzy and content. "You mean the 'crazy sex like rabbits on speed' phase?"  
  
"Yeah, that one," she said, with a decisive nod. "Speaking of which…"  
  
She snagged his hand as she spun out of his arms, and tugged him once again toward the bedroom. He smiled and followed, stumbling sleepily over his own feet. And that was when they heard the aggressive buzzing sound from the next room.  
  
They both froze, then broke apart, collapsing against opposite walls, thinking and assessing. Weapons locations, escape routes, threat scenarios…  
  
"Oh, for God's sake," Sydney suddenly huffed, straightening and striding out confidently toward the living room. At the end of the hall, she stooped and snagged her jeans from the floor, tugging her cell phone from the back pocket. "Sorry," she sighed, making big disappointed eyes at him as she answered the buzzing phone.  
  
Vaughn slumped against the wall and tried to get his hammering heart under control. It was nice to know, at least, that his time wasting away in the hallowed halls of Virginia's biggest paperwork factory hadn't dulled his reflexes too much.  
  
"No way," Sydney was saying into the phone. "I'm a big girl, it's not like I - yes. No. For God's sake, Dad, would you stop? No. No." A long pause, and Sydney looked over at him long enough to roll her eyes, mouth a 'blah blah blah', and smile. Michael smiled back. "I'll be there. Yes. Thirty minutes? Come on, Dad. Yes, okay, fine. Yes. I'll be there. I will." She snarled as she stabbed viciously at the 'end call' button. "He's going to pay," she promised.  
  
"I have no doubt," Michael replied, with another grin. "Where do you have to be in half an hour?"  
  
"Airport," she replied. Her eyes were twin pools of misery. "I should quit. Not only that, but I should quit in a really spectacular way. Like I should get up in the middle of a briefing and do a striptease and have 'I QUIT' written on my ass."  
  
"No, you shouldn't," he disagreed mildly. He circled her wrists with his fingers and pushed her back gently against the wall, capturing her lips in a slow, deep kiss. "And by that I mean that you shouldn't quit, but also that I completely veto the striptease idea and any other concept that involves you getting naked for anyone but me."  
  
She smiled back, good mood momentarily returned, body pressed along the length of his. "You've got to live a little, Agent Vaughn," she breathed. "Besides, Weiss would love it."  
  
"Of course he would," Vaughn countered. "You're beautiful. Of course, this body is classified. You could show him, but then I'd have to kill him. I guess the least I can do for such a good friend is let him die happy."  
  
She gave his lips a last, affectionate nip, then slipped away, picking up her scattered clothes from the floor and retreating into the bedroom.  
  
"We're finally done with the operation," she said, as he followed more slowly behind her, enjoying the view. "So when we get back to LA I should be able to call you again."  
  
He leaned against the door frame, watching her squirm into her jeans. "When will I see you?" he asked.  
  
She grimaced as she hooked her bra, her eyes darting around in search of her abandoned tank top. "I'm not sure," she answered, distractedly. "Maybe not until you're back in LA."  
  
He grimaced, too, and shifted his weight. "Yeah, about that," he sighed. "My supervisor out here is making noises about keeping me here longer. I guess I'm doing too good a job. Not surprising considering a trained monkey could do it. But you don't think they'd leave me out here, would they?"  
  
Sydney paused, frowning deeply and staring at him, then gave up on the missing tank top. She swiftly crossed to his closet and pulled out his LA Kings jersey, tugging it over her head, and he bit down on his lip to stifle the moan that tried to escape. A thirty-minute deadline hung over their heads, and it would take her at least that long to make the airport and get to her terminal. There was no time to truly enjoy the sight of her in that jersey, or to indulge himself in stripping it back off.  
  
"You're too valuable to the Rambaldi thing," she assured him.  
  
"Not too valuable to ship me off for six months," he reminded.  
  
"They miss you, they just won't admit it," Sydney said. She tugged on her shoes and efficiently tightened the laces. "There's this new guy, Stephens, who's having a lot of your old duties handed to him. He seems to have a knack for screwing things up. I'd be surprised if they last six months without you."  
  
"You're just saying that to make me feel better," he accused, feeling downright petulant at the sight of all that beautiful skin unjustly covered.  
  
"Nah," she disagreed. "If I wanted to make you feel better, I'd probably tell you how terrific you are in bed. Then I'd move on to detailing exactly what I'm going to do to you the next time I get my hands on you."  
  
He slumped against the wall again, feeling a little weak-kneed, and muttered, "Jesus. You know, your dad's going to see that jersey and know exactly where you've been."  
  
"That's the idea." She smiled brightly as she bounced up from her seat on the edge of his rumpled bed. She tucked the phone back into her pants pocket and crossed the room in a few swift strides to catch him in a hard, hungry kiss, ran her hands down his chest, dug her fingers into his hips. "I'll call you," she promised him, breathless as she pulled away.  
  
"Love you," he called to her vanishing form, as she disappeared down the hallway.  
  
"You have no idea," she hollered back, then there was the sound of the balcony door sliding open and shut, and he was alone again.  
  
Vaughn sighed, scrubbing his face with the palms of his hands and moving into the dining room to secure the balcony door. He looked out at the night through the clear glass, but Sydney had already disappeared from sight. With a frustrated huff of breath, he slumped back to the bedroom and collapsed, falling into sleep.  
  
In the morning, he got up the second time the alarm went off, took a two-minute shower, shaved, dressed for work, and wandered into the kitchen. He looked at the postcard on the refrigerator as he sipped at his hot coffee, and then he rinsed the mug, left it in the sink, and went to work. He was smiling as he left the house, and he couldn't seem to shake the expression for the rest of the day. 


End file.
